


Just Add Yeast

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-14
Updated: 2003-09-14
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: A minor injury and the chance to play house lead Mulder to confession, Scully to action.





	Just Add Yeast

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Just Add Yeast

## Just Add Yeast

### by FoxProse

**TITLE: JUST ADD YEAST**  
**AUTHOR: FOXPROSE**  
**E-MAIL:** **RATING: NC-17**  
WARNING: Descriptive sex. Smut warning. **CATEGORY: MSR**  
**KEYWORDS: ANGST/MULDER POV**  
DISCLAIMER: Enough problems with real people in my life, let alone fictional characters. They belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  
SPOILERS: Very minor for Bad Blood, Anasazi, The Unnatural.  
SUMMARY: A minor injury and the chance to play house lead Mulder to confession, Scully to action. 

**A tremendous debt of gratitude to Donnilee for giving fabulous beta and initiating me gently into the world of fanfic!**

****

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**ARLINGTON HOSPITAL, ARLINGTON, VA**  
**THURSDAY, 1 A.M.**

The perky resident knocked on the door to my examining room. Jeez, what was she? Eleven or twelve years old? Since when did seventh graders get stethoscopes and M.D.s after their names? 

"Okay, Mr. Mulder, the radiologist and the attending physician went over your x-rays, and there are no fractures. You're good to go, but you'll need to stay off the basketball court for a few weeks." 

"Great. Thanks, Doc." 

"We're going to wrap your ankle and put on a flexible cast. I'm giving you a prescription for a painkiller, and you'll need to take ibuprofen for the swelling. Is there someone we can call? You'll need a ride home, and you'll need someone to fill your prescriptions and help you out for the next day or two." 

My buddy Jeff had brought me to the ER after our weekly game, but I'd sent him on his way hours ago. My ankle, unimpressed by the stellar athleticism I had displayed in performing a crucial jump shot, had crumpled upon landing. I sat out the rest of the game, icing my injury, but even my teammates agreed that maybe medical attention was in order. 

So here I was: 1 a.m. AM on a Thursday morning in the ER, in pain and alone - unless you count a physician who looks like she'd better get home quick or she'll miss curfew. 

Of course! I could call Scully. She'd bring me home, get my meds, and maybe baby me a little bit ... Maybe she'd even let me stay at her place! I had to jump on this quick! 

"Yeah, yeah, my partner. Dana Scully," I answered. There were no outside phone lines in my examining room, so I jotted down Scully's name and phone number for a nurse to make the call. 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**ARLINGTON HOSPITAL, ARLINGTON, VA**  
**THURSDAY, 2 A.M.**

"Okay, Mulder. We're going to get this 'scrip filled and get you home. Do you have any ibuprofen at home - Advil or something?" 

Scully, my wonderful, beautiful, brilliant Scully was here to take me home and make it all better. My ankle felt better already! 

The resident's now-familiar knock sounded again, and she stuck her head in the door. She nodded at Scully, who was studying my x-ray that was clipped to the light box . 

"OK, all the paperwork's finished. As soon as Mr. Scully arrives, you can take off." 

"I'm Dr. Dana Scully," my partner spoke up, using that cool, supercilious voice adopted by full-fledged physicians when dealing with those who attempt to exceed their rank in the medical hierarchy. 

The resident blushed visibly. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder. I thought when you said "partner," you meant ..." 

"Yeah, no problem," I looked away as her sentence trailed off. 

In the lexicon of this politically correct young woman, a single man in his latest possible thirties who spoke of a 'partner' probably meant another man. Apparently political correctness didn't cover those of us who had no loved ones of either gender waiting to take us home. The truth sounded pitiful even to me: 'No, Doc, there's no wife, no girlfriend, no boyfriend. In my world, a partner is just someone sharing fast food during stakeouts.' To put it bluntly, I had to call a co-worker to pick me up, albeit one I've been in love with since I can remember. 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 3 A.M.**

Yes! I had conned Scully into taking me to her place. It didn't take much effort, really. I made sure to let it slip out that I have neither ibuprofen nor much in the way of food in my apartment. 

She sighed deeply. "If it's all the same to you, Mulder, let's just go to my place. I've got plenty of Advil, and we'll stop at the 24-hour CVS around the corner to get the prescription filled." 

I was smart enough not to let my elation show. There was no need to scare Scully off with over-the-top displays of rampant neediness. 

Probably my most embarrassing secret - and this was coming from a guy with a significant video collection \- was the increasing frequency with which I fantasized about Scully's apartment. Not that kind of fantasy, although I had plenty of those, too. No, this fantasy started a few years ago, and I was finding it more and more compelling. 

See, it wasn't sexual at all. It was sort of ... domestic ... I guess. I loved to stretch out on Scully's couch, close my eyes, and pretend that we lived there together, that she was mine. I could hear her puttering around in the kitchen or typing on her computer, and sometimes I half-watched a ball game on TV. I felt warm and safe and ... happy. Pretty sick, huh? Was I well and truly whipped, or what? 

This fantasy had become part of my standard repertoire, whether I was at home or in some Bureaucontracted hotel room. I closed my eyes and was   
transported to Scully's living room, and I felt myself relaxing. I even conjured the smell of real food cooking in her kitchen. So when I actually got the chance to camp out in Georgetown, I was in heaven. 

I was not such a doofus that I didn't recognize the meaning of any of this. I'd flush my fish down the toilet, donate my couch to Goodwill, and move in with Scully tomorrow if she'd have me. I'd make love to her, marry her, or max out my credit cards for her - whatever would make her happy. But here was the problem: I was in way, way too deep. I loved her way too much to risk rejection. It was melodramatic, I knew, but I honestly didn't think I could go on without her in my life. 

So I lived with the status quo, always watching for some sign that Scully might welcome something more than what we had, always trying to find excuses to be with her, touch her, or get her attention. I know, I know. It was behavior more befitting a 13-year-old boy with a crush. I wished I could either let go of her or summon the guts to tell her how I felt. Amazing, wasn't it? I regularly risked my life, my career, my reputation - well, maybe there wasn't much of that left to risk- in pursuit of the truth. But when it came to facing the biggest truth in my life? Complete, unequivocal cowardice. 

"You need anything else, Mulder?" Scully asked as she made up the couch with a sheet, a quilt, and a couple of fluffy pillows, including one for my ankle. 

"No, I'll be fine. You get some sleep. And, Scully, thanks for everything. I mean it." I tried to look soulful to gain that extra smidgeon of sympathy. 

"You know I wouldn't leave you to your own devices when you're injured." She ruffled my hair slightly. Yes! Three points! I loved it when she touched me like this. 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 7 A.M.**

It must have been the smell that permeated my consciousness before I woke up. Something so wonderful that my heart soared with what a wonderful place the world was. And that was definitely not my usual first waking thought. I could hear Scully in the kitchen, so I opened my eyes and sat up. My ankle still hurt like a son-of-bitch. 

"What're you making, Scully? Smells good." 

"Fresh bread. My mom got me a bread maker last Christmas. You dump in the ingredients the night before, and you wake up to warm bread. Get cleaned up and come have breakfast." 

I made my way slowly to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from the linen closet. I always made sure to keep a few things at Scully's, in case of disaster or luck, I told myself. Seemed like it was usually disaster. 

A shower felt good, even if I had to balance on one foot. Besides, the smell from the bread was driving me crazy. I toweled off and dressed in minutes, all ready to belly up to the trough chez Scully. 

Scully had the table set with real plates and a bunch of jams and spreads. I went with plain grape jelly and spread it onto a slice of bread so warm and soft that it molded to the shape of my hand. It tasted better than I could possibly describe; it tasted like my little domestic fantasy, full of warmth, safety, and happiness. 

"Scully, this is unbelievable. I knew you could cook, but this counts as art." 

"It's just a bread machine, Mulder. You should get one. They're simple." 

"Nah, it wouldn't taste the same if I made it." 

"Sure it would. Listen, I called Skinner's office to let him know you'd be out for a few days. I'm taking off this morning, but I have to go in this afternoon to review some autopsy results from some field office. Do you want to stay here or go back to your place?" 

"Um, maybe I'll just hang around here the rest of the day if it's okay with you." 

"Of course. I need to rewrap your foot, anyway." 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 3:30 P.M.**

The phone jarred me awake from a nap. I made a mad dash to answer it, forgetting about my injured ankle. I recoiled from the pain and stumbled, nearly knocking myself to the ground before grabbing the receiver. 

"It's me, Mulder. Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, I forgot for a minute that I can't walk." 

"How's the ankle doing?" 

"Okay, I guess. Anything interesting on the autopsies?" 

"No X-File, if that's what you mean. Just normal mayhem in America. I'm getting ready to leave in about an hour. Do you want anything special for dinner?" 

"Nah, but you don't have to cook. We can order takeout or something." 

"What about clothes? Should I stop at your apartment and pick some things up?" 

Now this was getting really tempting. I would have loved to stay . . . the rest of my life. But my apartment was in the opposite direction. I really couldn't ask Scully to fetch clean clothes. On the other hand, she had offered. 

"That'd be great. But it's out of the way; it'll take forever." 

"Don't worry, Mulder. It's what I get paid the big bucks for." 

We disconnected and I thought about dinner. Even I was not so insensitive as to make her drive to Arlington, turn around for the return to DC, and then present her with the same take-out food we scarf down when we're pulling marathon paperwork sessions. I toyed briefly with the idea of taking her to a nice restaurant, but hopping along on my injured ankle wouldn't exactly foster a sophisticated, romantic mood. I limped to the kitchen and opened the freezer and a few cabinets. Maybe I'd impress Scully with my own domestic talents, such as they were. The clock read 3:07 PM. I had just enough time if I got my act together! 

I started by opening the bread maker. This thing looked exactly like that cryogenic chamber for alien fetuses. I wondered if they advertised that function? The menu on top offered choices I didn't even know the meaning of, but I didn't see 'alien gestation' among them. Frankly, I was surprised there were enough people with the smarts to use these things to make selling them worthwhile. 

A brief rummage in a drawer filled with warranties, instruction books, and take-out menus yielded a slim pamphlet entitled, "Secrets to Making Delicious Bread with Your BreadMaster Plus." Woo-hoo! 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 3:37 P.M.**

Who knew that you keep yeast in the freezer? Who knew what yeast does, anyway. Except for Byers, who told me where to look after I put in a frustrated call to the Gunmen. He said it lasted longer that way. Okay, John, I'll trust you on that one. 

I pressed 'rapid rise' and 'start,' and we were jammin'! 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 6:40 P.M.**

The key turned in the lock, and I repositioned my ankle on the pillow. Scully took a step into her apartment, and dropped her parcels on a chair by the door. The expression on her face was gratifying beyond my wildest hopes. 

"Mulder, what have you been doing? Do I smell food?" 

"Um, sort of. I figured neither of us wanted another take-out meal, so I made some bread and warmed up some manicotti from the freezer." 

"You made bread? I'm impressed. You found the instructions?" 

"Yup. Now, if madam would care to be seated ..." I lowered my injured ankle from its perch and stood up tentatively while extending my arm to escort her to a seat at the table I had set two minutes before she walked in the door. 

"Mulder, can I change first? I hate to eat in work clothes." 

"Do you need help, or shall I wait here?" I waggled my eyebrows suggestively. 

Stupid, stupid idiot! I was doing so great; then I had to make some kind of obnoxious sexual joke. The partial meltdown of Scully's demeanor was once again replaced by a look of forbearance for the immature boy in the class. 

While I mentally flagellated myself, Scully reappeared in some kind of soft, fuzzy pajama outfit in dark green. Not overtly sexy, but it made her look relaxed and infinitely beddable! 

Scully sat down at the table, looking genuinely pleased, as well she should have been. I'd outdone myself. I managed to find a tablecloth, matching dishes, and napkins. And all the silverware matched! I had even rustled up some candles, which I found buried deep in the cabinet over the microwave. Scully assisted in transporting the main dish, and I sliced the bread. I also grabbed a bottle of Moscato I had discovered during my previous search for the yeast and had stashed in the refrigerator. Was I smooth or what? 

I poured the wine, and we silently toasted. Scully looked more content than I'd seen her recently, and as we ate, she murmured effusive compliments about my prodigious skills at operating bread machines and warming frozen pasta. 

"So, have I impressed you enough to get to stay here and be a house-husband?" 

I was joking, of course, but like always, I was desperately seeking affirmation. But unlike our usual repartee, Scully didn't respond with a witty oneliner. She stopped eating, replaced her fork, and reached up to cradle my face with her hand. 

"Mulder, you never need an excuse to be here. You don't even need to be injured. You can spend time here, spend the night here, just because you want to." 

Whoa! This was unexpected. Had she been seeing through my little schemes all along? That was an embarrassing thought. I looked away, stuttering apologies. 

"Mulder, it's okay. I want you here. I know we need our own space, but I want you here as often as you want to be here." 

"Scully, I can assure you that when it comes to what we want, you and I are not on the same page," I said bitterly, still looking away. 

"Oh, really? And page is it that you're on? What is it you want?" 

I was defiant now. Scully had challenged me, and I felt the pent-up frustration bubbling. 'Just tell her; just tell her,' I repeated to myself like a mantra. 

"Everything. I want everything you can give, and probably then some. I want to be ...," I searched for the right word. "I want to be your lover, your boyfriend, whatever you want to call it. I want to be the only man in your life." 

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she exhaled audibly. Her eyes did not meet mine. "You've always been the only man in my life, Mulder." 

"You know what I mean, Scully." Now I was really humiliated. I could tell she was going to give me the 'you're a special person and I like you as a friend' speech. Why did I tell her? What made me choose tonight to leap from the proverbial frying pan into the fire? 

But Scully wasn't responding according to the script. Instead of giving me an agonizing speech about friendship, she stood up and moved to my side. She lifted my chin and grazed my lips with an exploratory kiss. 

Oh, God! I was planning for rejection. I was all ready to call a taxi, hobble home, and beg Scully to never mention this again. But she was pressing her lips against mine; the same full lips she used to eat those fake ice cream bars, the same lips that appear in my fantasies - the non-domestic fantasies. 

Need I add that I was instantly, painfully hard? I squirmed a bit, certain that Scully would withdraw once she detected evidence of my arousal. Nevertheless, I returned and deepened her kisses, and she responded in kind, the tip of her pink tongue darting between her teeth. My tongue met hers, and in that moment it seemed like the most intimate connection imaginable. We both shivered palpably as we realized that nothing would ever be the same again. My nipples were erect and almost painfully sensitized. Scully raked her hands down the front of my shirt, and this contact alone brought me to the edge of orgasm. 

Scully moved closer, straddling my good leg, grabbing my shirt in an almost proprietary fashion. Surely she sensed what this was doing to me? She tasted of wine and tomato sauce, and I stroked her hair and cupped her face with one hand while I circled her waist with my other arm. 

"Couch, Mulder," Scully said with the same authority that makes suspects lie down and hold their hands meekly out for cuffs. She slid off me, and I limped to the couch, unsure if my ankle or my erection was the greater impediment to freedom of movement. Apparently Scully had noticed her effect on me, since she leaned over and carefully unzipped my jeans. She knelt in front of the couch, wiggled my jeans down my hips just a bit, and took me in her mouth. 

"Aaaah," I panted, moving swiftly past the stages of disbelief and self-consciousness to being completely stupefied by the rhythm and the incredible sensations she was creating with her tongue. "No, Scully, you don't have to . . ." I murmured, but my heart wasn't in it. Scully answered by taking me a notch deeper in her mouth. Though I didn't want to dwell too long on this thought, it occurred to me that Scully really knew how to do this. While her tongue and lips expertly sucked me to a new plane of consciousness, she zeroed in on the spot directly behind my balls, massaging it with her finger. 

Now I began to worry! This performance was going to be over way too soon, and while I'd be in heaven, this wasn't exactly how I envisioned my big seduction going down, no pun intended. 

"No ... more. Too close ... Don' wanna come ..." 

Apparently I made no impression, because Scully responded by changing the angle of her head slightly and taking me in to the hilt. My orgasm was welling inside me now, as Scully seemed perfectly aware. She alternated her sucking style slightly, swallowing my entire length when she heard my breath become more ragged. Finally, she did something that both shocked and aroused me more than I thought possible. She slid a single finger into my ass. This new sensation of being fucked combined with the work of her tongue and lips triggered an immediate, blinding orgasm. I heard an inarticulate cry that seemed oddly disengaged from my body as I surrendered to primordial urges, and Scully swallowed everything I could pour into her. 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**  
**DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT**  
**THURSDAY, 7:30 P.M.**

I slowly returned to the here-and-now and wondered woozily if I'd ever walk or talk again. I might just have to lay here in Scully's apartment the rest of my life, rendered mute and immobile by sexual satisfaction. 'Don't drift off, doofus! This is your big chance,' an insistent inner voice nagged. 

"Scully, I'm sorry . . .," I began. 

"That's funny; you didn't look all that sorry a minute ago." She smiled and lowered her head slightly to show me she was teasing. 

"I meant, I never expected you ... I mean, I hadn't wanted it to be one-sided." 

"Don't worry. I'll extract adequate compensation later." 

Later? My heart again soared! I went for broke. 

"Scully? You know I love you? Right?" Oh, great. I sounded like a 13-year-old girl, ending every sentence with a question mark. 

"Yes, Mulder. I love you, too." She paused, then, "Wanna help me with dishes?" 

"I mean, I really love you. I always have. I always will," I said with just a hint of desperation, feeling uneasy with how casually she seemed to be taking all this. 

Scully was strangely serene. She smiled at me as if she'd always known this moment would arrive, that my words were predestined. "I know, Mulder. And I love you, too. Do you think I'd have put up with that crummy basement office all these years or trailed after every damned exsanguinated cow if I weren't in love with you?" 

Happiness was so foreign a sensation that I felt tears start to sting the backs of my eyes. I blinked back the sudden wetness and made a joke to reduce the intensity of my emotion. "Mmm, basement office. Maybe you've seen possibilities in a remotely-located office I hadn't considered." 

Scully stood up and rolled her eyes. She extended a hand to help me to my feet and then swatted me on the backside while pointing to the dirty dishes. We cleaned up together, exchanging ribs and one-liners. We even shared the latest office gossip about new task force formations and what field offices were currently cleaning shit off their fans for various reasons. 

Our banter and conversation was so normal that I'd almost began to wonder if I had hallucinated the earlier episode. I blinked and rubbed my head as if these actions would provide prompt delineation between reality and fantasy. We finished cleaning and Scully blew out the candles. I was relieved when she put her hand on my shoulder and leaned in close to my ear. 

"Is there dessert?" Scully whispered with mock innocence. 

"Oh, yeah, I can provide dessert." Without pausing, I swooped her into my arms, and while it killed my ankle, the pain was worth the dramatic effect of carrying her into her bedroom. I deposited her on the bed, trying not to cringe as my ankle protested. Her bed, which I confess to having earlier scoped out, was covered with a thick comforter and four or five pillows, and she seemed to sink into its depths. I slipped off her fuzzy knit pants, and she pulled off the matching top. I felt an immediate reload when I discovered she was wearing no underwear. Just perfect breasts with dark nipples peaked in excitement and her sex covered in dark auburn, damp and musky as I kissed her thighs and trailed caresses up her belly. 

I buried myself in her breasts, alternately sucking and licking her nipples, less sure of my next move. Scully must have intuited my indecision, because she led my hand to her wet, tight channel and silently urged me to explore her with my finger. She was every bit as wet and tight as my most lurid imaginings. My body reacted immediately to my explorations, viscerally recalling a thousand fantasies in which she moaned my name, just like she was doing now. 

"Mulder. . . Yesss!" Scully hissed and arched her back. "Inside me. Please." 

Don't have to ask me twice. I had already pulled off my sweatshirt, and I slid my pants and boxers off in a single motion. 

"Yes. Please, Mulder. Make love to me." 

Scully moved her legs slightly to encircle my waist and her body swallowed me whole. I'd figured I could provide slower, more languorous lovemaking the second time around. The rhythm she set up was too compelling, though, and I was embarrassed to find myself pounding into her with increasing desperation. I'd wanted this for so long; no, needed it. I had to tell her, really tell her. Had to makes sure she knew. 

"Scu ... Scully! Love you. Love you so much ... Need you so bad ..." 

"Harder. S'okay - c'mon . . . I know you wanta fuck me harder." 

Was I hallucinating, or did Scully just tell me to fuck her harder? I was murmuring how much I loved her, and she was demanding to be fucked harder? Somehow this wasn't quite how I'd pictured it. I ground my hips into hers, hoping I was hitting the right spot. Scully's breathing became shallow as she arched her back. She tightened the grip of her legs around my hips, pulling me in even deeper. Her nipples, if possible, became even more erect, and I felt her body begin to contract around me. The strength of her orgasm almost dislodged me, and I bucked into her uncontrollably and artlessly as my own climax ripped through me. 

Our breathing slowed, and she smiled at me reassuringly. I pulled her into my arms and collapsed on my side. There was a quilt at the foot of her bed, and I pulled it over us. I stroked her hair out of her face and nuzzled her slightly. 

"Why now?" I asked, genuinely puzzled at how tonight's event unfolded. 

"Maybe we were both ready at the same time," she suggested. 

"You really do love me?" I persisted. While I had reputation for believing in extreme possibilities, the possibility that Scully truly felt this way about me seemed too extreme even for me to accept at face value. 

"Oh, yeah." 

"How long?" 

"Six years, seven years . . . maybe forever." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked incredulously. 

"I guess I didn't think you were ready." 

"What made you change your mind?" 

"I don't know; I guess the way you've started looking for excuses to stay with me, or maybe the look on your face when you woke up this morning. You looked like you wanted to be here. And you were so happy over the bread . . . something must have resonated, because everything just felt right," she said, moving slightly to look me in the eyes. 

Okay, enough analysis. Don't want to talk these things to death. Besides, this new, mutual feeling was like a butterfly. Hold it too tightly and it would be crushed. We drifted off, not really asleep, but drowsing in the warmth and comfort of the little nest we'd made in Scully's bed. 

I must have fallen more deeply asleep than I realized, because I awoke a bit later to the sounds of Scully moving around her kitchen. I limped to the bathroom and put my clothes back on, but I couldn't resist the temptation to lie down again and let myself enjoy the overwhelming sensation of softness in her bed. She apparently heard me stirring. 

"You want orange juice, Mulder? I got the kind you like - no pulp. And I warmed up the rest of the bread you made." 

I closed my eyes for a second before answering. Just enough time to inhale deeply and recall my fantasy. But this time, it was reality - or close enough. I know: we're not living together. But she loved me. She was mine. I inhaled again and concentrated on the feel of the bed cocooning around me, the smell of potpourri on her dresser, the leftover bread warming in the kitchen. It felt warm ... safe ... happy. I rubbed away a stray tear that escaped my eye and got up to claim my orange juice, purchased without pulp by the woman I love, because she knew that's the way I liked it. 

**THE END.**   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to FoxProse


End file.
